


Five Happy Reunions for Maglor

by djinmer4



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Gen, M/M, feanorians - Freeform - Freeform, maglor returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djinmer4/pseuds/djinmer4
Summary: A more light-hearted version of 'Five People Who Wouldn't Get on the Boat'.  Maglor returns to Aman.





	1. Toron

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are wondering how Maglor got back, take the last scene from the other story, and put Galadriel and Elrond in place of Cirdan. Maglor probably wasn't too happy to get abducted but on the other hand, he's definitely done worse things so he probably deserves it.

Maglor carefully waited until everyone on the dock was preoccupied with the return of Olorin and Artanis, greeting the Ringbearers, and Elrond was wrapped up with his reunion with Celebrian, before carefully sneaking off the ship. He wasn’t really trying to hide, but he didn’t want to spoil the happy moment. He figured as long as he started the journey straight to Mahanaxar, the Valar wouldn’t hold his surreptitious entry into Aman against him. And even if they did, it wasn’t like they didn’t several other, far more severe offenses to charge him with.

As it was, he didn’t get more than a few steps off the dock before someone stopped him. A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, arresting him in his tracks and startling him badly. In two ages of the world, no one had ever taken him by surprise like this. The Singer forcibly relaxed his muscles and wiped all the expression off his face before turning around.

His interceptor was not a stern Maia, but rather a fellow Quendi. Tall, well-built, with red-and-white hair and a full beard. And actually glad to see him, by the smile on his face. Clearly, this was a case of mistaken identity. Before Maglor could apologize for the confusion, he was pulled into a forceful embrace. “ _Amatulya_ , Makalaure.” the other rumbled, joy clear in the taller ner’s voice.

Well, that put a different spin on things. The Feanorian could think of only one person who would both be happy to see him and could possibly fit this description. He dropped his bags and returned the embrace. “ _Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo,_  Grandfather.”

* * *

It was hours later and Celegorm had still not stopped laughing. “Would you stop it already!” yelled Maglor, flushed from both embarrassment and the wine. “I said I was sorry!”

“Oh no, big brother, there’s no way you are ever going to live this down. To think that you and Maitimo used to spend all your time together, only for you to mistake him for  _Haru_ Mahtan!” Celegorm had long slipped from his seat down to the floor; Maglor thought he might just stretch over and kick his brother to make him stop. Apparently reading his mind, Maedhros refilled his goblet, incidentally leaning down and applying enough pressure to keep the younger (older?) Elf in place.

“Celegorm I haven’t seen any of you for over six thousand years now, is it really such a surprise that my memory might have blurred a little?”

“I remembered you well enough. And I only had your back to recognize you.” Maedhros declared. Maglor turned, catching the twinkle in his older brother’s eye, and was glad that the red-head wasn’t holding a grudge. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give as good as he got.

“In my defense, you’ve all changed more than I have. How is it that all of you have a beard when I do not? And I’m the one who’s been alive all this time! How long has it been since you were released?” Indeed, the facial hair of his brothers ranged from Maedhros’s full beard to Curufin’s neat little mustache to what appeared to be a permanent evening shadow on Caranthir. Only Celegorm was free of it, and based on the small cut Maglor saw on his chin, that was more of a case of being clean-shaven rather than lacking a beard. Yet Maglor himself had none.

Maglor did not mention the other obvious change. Each of his brothers had the wintery hairs that signaled old age in the Secondborn. On Caranthir, it was one white forelock, neatly braided and adorned (where he had taken the blow to the head that killed him). On Maedhros it was in motley patches, easily seen in both the long hair and full beard (and matched the scars from his time in Angband and the battles in Beleriand). For Celegorm, all his hair had turned completely white, although it had been so fair before that only those who had known him in the Age of the Trees could tell the difference. This was one change they shared; Maglor knew they could see the four white streaks that marred his own black hair. One for each Kinslaying and then the last for the theft of the Silmarilli.

Curufin sniffed and spoke in his most haughty voice. “Clearly, the answer is just that you’re a freak, Kano.” He maintained the expression for a few seconds, then a grin broke out over his face. “And it’s only been a yen since Nelyo was released.”

“And you’ve all grown beards in only a yen?” asked the older ellon skeptically.

“ _La_ , Kano, of course not. Maitimo was just the last to be released.” Ambarussa (Maglor was embarrassed to realize he couldn’t tell which twin was which anymore) set down another tray of snacks he had gone to fetch. “I think Moryo was released about … ten yeni ago?”

“Five yeni.” corrected Caranthir, reaching over to grab a berry tart. “Tyelpe,” he gestured over to where their nephew was chatting with Frodo Baggins, Bilbo having been put to bed just after supper. “-was released ten yeni ago. After I was the Ambarussa, then these two troublemakers and Nelyo were the last.”

“I did have more to repent than the rest of you.”

The middle Feanorian snorted. “I’ll grant you needed to heal more. But I think they only released me because they realized I wasn’t at all sorry about most of it. Some of it, like Alqualonde, but not everything. I hardly regret burning those wretched death traps.” Maglor nodded his agreement. He hadn’t known better at the time, but the Second and Third Ages had taught him that the vaunted Swan Ships of the Teleri had really not been up to mass migration. They had barely sufficed for the close-shore fishing the Teleri had used them for.

“If they have allowed the rest of you to be re-embodied,” he began tentatively. “Is there a chance-”

“No.” Maedhros shook his head decisively.

“Oh … “

“Not that Father notices. You’d be amazed at what can be accomplished in the metaphysical fields when you’re not bound by a  _hroa_. He almost turned the entirety of the Halls into his workshop.” The eldest reached into his tunic and extracted a letter. “Here, he wrote this for you. When you want to reply, give any of Namo’s Maiar the letter and they will get it to him.”

Maglor turned the letter over and over in his hands, then put it away in his own pocket. His father’s words deserved his complete attention and he wouldn’t be able to give them that tonight. Maedhros continued on, “Really, I think Father’s happier there than he ever was in Valinor. He can work to his heart’s content,  _Haru_  Finwe and  _Haruni_  Miriel are both there, and he’s even made peace with Uncle Nolo.”

Well, that wasn’t the outcome he had expected. “And everyone else? I notice mother isn’t here.”

“A twist of chance. We’ve had someone here to welcome you ever since we knew that you, Elrond, Artanis and Olorin would be arriving sometime this year. Had you come a week later, it would have been Mother who greeted you. A month earlier, and it would’ve been Uncle Ara on the docks. Nelyo insisted we not let you think yourself alone and abandoned.”

“You make me into a fanatic, Moryo. But it really was just luck. The intention was to give you someone familiar to see, but not overwhelm you. The others just happened to be visiting Tol Eressea today. I hope it wasn’t too much for you?”

Maglor looked over the busy room. Olorin, Celebrimbor, and Frodo were in a deep conversation over pie. Elrond and Galadriel were by the fire with Celebrian, not speaking but just basking in each other’s company. Curufin and his wife Tasarewen were badgering the poor innkeeper to get some hot chocolate, rather than just wine and ale. The Ambarussa had joined some of their shipmates and were playing a rather heated game of cards. And Celegorm was still laughing.

It wasn’t the past and it wasn’t perfect. Mother wasn’t here and neither was his wife. Father wasn’t here and never would be. But his brothers were here, and he wasn’t being dragged to the void in chains. His son was here, and new friends were here too. There was good food and laughter and hope.

“It’s fine Nelyo. This is better than anything I ever dreamed.”


	2. Aran

Public apology ceremony completed, Maglor left the stage of Mahanaxar. Two Ages of the World mostly spent roughing it, and he was no longer comfortable with the formal clothes of the Noldor. Not to mention he felt sort of cheated. As a bard, he knew the power of words, but as a Feanorian, he felt that true restitution could only come from actions. To have the ceremony and declare that he had been redeemed at the end of it; that did nothing to clear his conscience. Maglor resolved to contact Olwe later and work out arrangements for a more concrete form of an apology. Perhaps the King of the Teleri would appreciate some examples of seafaring vessels of the Secondborn? He’d have to think of something for Elwing and Earendil as well.

Before Maglor lost himself in too much speculation another  _ner_  stepped out from behind a pillar. Out of all the various rulers of the First Age, Elu Thingol had been the only one not invited to the ceremony. The Valar had deemed that the First Kinslaying had been a crime against Olwe and the Second, having happened after Thingol’s death had been an attack on Dior. Given that Dior and Nimloth had both chosen the path of Men, Maglor thought they should have allowed Elu to stand in their place, but he wasn’t a Vala, so kept quiet.

Elu was a tall as the legends and Finrod had stated, overshadowing the shorter Noldo by almost a  _ranga_. He was dressed flamboyantly, the grey cloak he was so famous for woven from spider silk strung with diamonds, with moonstones and peacock ore adorning his gold crown and necklace. He was as intimidating as only an undisputed King of Elves could be, and Maglor was as unimpressed as only a survivor of the First Age could be. He stood and let the platinum-haired king approach. “If thou desires a private vengeance, King of fallen Doriath, I should warn thee, I will only permit thee a single punch. Any further violence, and I will act to defend myself.”

That brought the Sinda to a halt. For all his strength, there was little doubt that he would lose that fight. Maglor had survived dragons, Balrogs, Sauron and everything his own people had thrown at him for three Ages of the world. Elu had hidden behind the Girdle for centuries, then fell in  _his own city_  to a handful of Dwarven  _craftsmen_. Dwarven warriors were certainly well able to match any Elf on the battlefield; Dwarven craftsmen were generally not expected to have learned the arts of self-defense and war. “Nay, Lord of the Gap, that it is not my purpose in detaining thee. Instead, I have come to lay to rest a grievance betwixt us.”

Maglor arched one brow. What grievance? While Maglor was spiteful enough to admit he had plenty of issues with Thingol’s ruling of Menegroth, he was also self-aware enough to admit the Feanorians probably had the greater guilt and diplomatic enough to know that no good would come of accusing the other of culpability.

“Lord Gonfin Maglor Feanorian Finwian. I, Elu Thingol, King of Fallen Doriath, do humbly request your pardon. For the banning of the language of the Noldor, for refusing your people the shelter of the Girdle, for refusing to relinquish the Silmaril to its rightful owners, I beg your forgiveness.”

A pregnant silence filled the air. Maglor licked his lips then killed it. “Thou hast surprised me, King of the Sindar. Our crimes against thee are well known; I had not expected an acknowledgment of thine own.”

The Sinda grimaced in turn. “Dost thou know that I only left the Halls of Mandos  _after_  thine brothers?”

Maglor frowned at the non sequitur and shook his head.

The older ellon sighed. “The Halls of Mandos are a place of rest and reflection. Where one may recuperate from the circumstances of one’s death. But one may not leave until they have acknowledged all they have accomplished, both the good and the bad.” Slow breaths, like the confession, was being dragged from the king. “It took a long, long time before I could acknowledge that I too was partially at fault for the disasters that befell Beleriand. And thou art not alone in seeking to redress one’s crimes.”

The singer gave the king a long look, then nodded. Not saying anything, he made his way past the Sinda. Elu turned and glared at the retreating back. “Hast thou naught to say in return, kinslayer?”

“We stand not in Mahanaxar, nor the Grand Market of Tirion. If it my forgiveness thou seeks, then know that it must be earned by deeds, not won by words. I shall seek the same from thee. Call upon me when thou has a task for me to accomplish, a request to be granted, a petition to be made. I will hold myself in thine debt.” He stopped and flashed a smile at the other. “But to be honest, this was a much better meeting than I ever expected. All the other scenarios I imagined had you taking a sword to my head.”

“A sword I choose not to wield on these holy shores. But thine offer of a blow, that I will accept anon. Be wary, kinslayer. I will take my vengeance for Doriath on the occasion thou least anticipates.”

“Probably in public too. I’ll be ready and waiting, Sinda King.” With that, the two went their separate ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that 'Thou/Thee' is actually informal use in Ye Olde Englishe. So they're actually being pretty darn rude to each other for most of the conversation.


	3. Lindir

“Do the Feanorians always have to be the center of attention no matter where they go?”

Maglor stopped as soon as he heard the familiar voice. Turning to the fair-haired Sindar he raised one incredulous eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve sung no solos, performed no original works. This concert was in memory of Alqualonde and I did not come here to grandstand. I was here to support the other performers, not upstage them.”

He received a smug smirk in reply. “Not your performance, although I agree that it was suitably understated for the occasion. I mean your  _appearance_.”

Still confused, Maglor looked down at his clothes. He had done his best to match the orchestra and not stand out. The robes were deep blue with some silver embroidery, made of rich material but plainly tailored. Not the unrelieved black he used to wear for solos, not so much embroidery as to advertise his status as a Noldo Prince (the fact he had retained the title had been quite a surprise). “I didn’t dress that flamboyantly.”

“I’m not talking about your clothes, I’m talking about your  _hair.”_ Maglor raised one hand to his circlet, still confused when it dawned on him. The other wasn’t talking about his jewelry, but rather the four prominent silver streaks. He dropped his hand to his harp and frowned at the other  _ellon_. “Well excuse me, I can’t exactly help the fact they’re there. What does it matter to you?”

“I’ve heard there’s this trend popular among the Secondborn. Something about dyeing their locks to hide signs of their mortality. Perhaps you should look into something similar.”

“Strong words for someone who’s hair is completely white, Daeron.” The greatest singer of all the Firstborn just grinned wider. If Maglor didn’t know better he’d say the other had actually missed him. “Ah, but the difference is I was born this way. On you, it becomes a charm point.”

Maglor remained unamused.

“I also might be a bit jealous. You wouldn’t believe the number of  _ellon_  and  _ellith_  in the audience swooning over you.” The Noldo went from unamused to downright horrified. “Oh yes! All aflutter over how tragic and beautiful you are, and how much they want to comfort you. Ha! Comfort you straight into bed, more likely!”

“You’re joking.”

“I only wish.”

“Are they mad?”

“No. But they are all very young, and the Noldolante is just a pretty piece of poetry to them, not a tragic experience they lived through. Well,” the Sinda paused and corrected himself. “Most of them are young. Some are old enough to still have Treelight in their eyes.”

Maglor slumped against a pillar, torn between exasperation and disbelief. His rival in Art let him take a moment to calm himself, probably composing some ditty or other to commemorate the occasion. Daeron could occasionally be remarkably petty in that way. Meanwhile, the recent Exile took the time to observe the Sinda. “You look much better than when I last saw you.”

Daeron gave a rather unmusical snort. “Considering I was out of mind, thin as a skeleton and raving when you forced me on the boat, it would be hard to look worse. What was it you said? Oh right: ‘A  _ner_  with a broken heart yet unfaded should not look worse than a Kinslayer with the blood of entire armies on his hands, exiled from his own people.’”

“I’m surprised you remember that.”

“I actually heard it from Milbenn, Amroth’s servant. Glad to see he wasn’t making it up.” A moment passed, and the smile fell from the white-haired elf’s face. “I’m glad we had a chance to meet like this. I never thanked you for forcing me onto that boat.”

“You were in no condition to be aware of your surroundings, never mind thanking anyone.”

“Yes, well, it’s not something most people would do for their most hated rival.”

“I’m too old to waste my energy on hating someone who hasn’t harmed me, never mind you. Besides,” Maglor had to forcibly keep his mind in the present rather than drift away into memories. He suspected that the other could still see his distraction though. “I spent a couple of centuries doing the grief and isolation routine. it gets old and is unproductive. When Elros dragged me away from that beach he told me I either needed to follow my brother’s example or start living my life again.” Shining grey eyes met brown. “I was just paying the favor forward. You weren’t dead after an Age in the world. There must have been some part of you that wanted to keep living. I just sent you to a place where you could find that part.”

“None the less, it was not something that many people in your position would do. Most would have left me alone with my grief.”

Maglor stated dryly. “Most people would be paralyzed by your song. I had an advantage over that.”

The banter might have continued but another  _ellon_  entered the corridor. “What ho! The two greatest musicians of all Eldar, together in the same building. What fortune! Perhaps now we can have a true answer to the question who the greatest singer and performer really is!”

“Not tonight!” The Noldo prince cut off the bystander before he could really get into it. “Tonight is for those who were harmed, we will not cheapen the memory of this tragedy by turning it into a competition.”

The Elf was visibly disappointed. “Perhaps you are right. But still, this is an opportunity not to be missed. Surely there is some way … “

Daeron took the lead. “I plan to be in the city for the next week. If Maglor is also available?”

“You both know I am here for the next year to serve out my repentance. It was announced this evening before the concert.” He side-eyed his rival.

“Splendid! Than perhaps … three nights from now? At the plaza of Meneaews? The plaza of a thousand birds,” he shot as an aside to the Exile.

The ellon lit up. “Of course. No need to worry my lords, I will take care of all the arrangements.” With that the ner went back into the auditorium, apparently to share his good news.

Maglor continued to frown at Daeron. “We know exactly who the better musician is, it was established during the Mereth Aderthad. Or did you forget that I was the one who named you the Greatest Singer of the Eldar.”

“That you did,” agreed the blond peaceably, but with a twinkle of mischief in his brown eyes. “But I’ve never been quite sure if you actually meant that or did it as a political sop to Thingol.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Diplomacy. Besides, that was more than an Age ago. You’ve had all this time to compose new songs, create new instruments and hone your singing ability. Even if I was the better during the feast, there’s no reason to assume it is still true today.”

Maglor pulled off his gloves and held up the hand with the scarred palm. “If anything I should have gotten worse over the Ages in Arda Marred.”

“How about we make a bet then? If you win, I’ll assist in the grand project the Valar have assigned to you for penitence. And don’t say that you don’t need help, you can hardly expect to build and run a city by yourself.” Daeron held up a hand to stop Maglor’s protests.

“And what experience have you with civil service?” asked Maglor, the skepticism clear in his powerful voice. “I ran the Gap for four hundred years. In the intervening Ages, I have advised Kings, governed cities, acted as a diplomat in more Mannish jurisdictional disputes than I can count. What can you do?”

“I can be a gofer.” That actually provoked a laugh from the raven-haired Elf.

“Fair enough. But what happens if you win?”

“I get to pick which performing engagements you accept for the next ten years.”

“Make it five and you’ve got yourself a deal.”


	4. Vessë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One unhappy reunion.

“Not that I’m not flattered, but why did you ask me to accompany you instead of one of the others? And where are we going anyway?” Ambarussa asked his older brother as Maglor carefully guided their horses (Ambarussa’s his own, Maglor’s borrowed from Arafinwe’s household) along the foothills of the Pelori.

“Hmm … a number of the others did offer to go with me. Maedhros, Cururfin, Uncle Ara.”

“You are closer to them. If you need emotional support … “

“Perhaps. But I wanted someone who was a bit more distant from the issue, someone who I was sure would keep a level head despite the situation.”

“I guess that explains why you didn’t take Caranthir with you either. But Curufin’s usually pretty good at staying calm.”

“Not in this type of situation. Ah,” Maglor had brought them to the outskirts of Tirion. Why he had left the city and taken an hour to circle to this neighborhood rather than just going straight through the city was unclear, until Ambarussa looked at the sigil that adorned the gate of the largest house. “Here we are.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come inside with you? There’s no shame in asking for help.”

“Ambarussa,” Maglor’s eyes were inappropriately bright for some reason. “If there’s one thing I will admit to, it’s that I’ll need your help  _after_  the visit.”

“If you’re sure.” Ambarussa turned his horse off to the side to graze, but Maglor could feel his gaze on his back.

The older  _ellon_  turned to the gate. Three melodic notes undid the lock, and he slipped in unimpeded. When he got to the front door, he knocked, three quick but loud raps.

The  _elleth_  who opened the door was clearly of Nelyar lineage, maybe with some Noldo blood to give her her height. She looked quite puzzled to see him, eyes shifting from his to look up at his marked hair. Maglor raised one quizzical eyebrow, he thought by now everyone in Tirion would by able to recognize him on sight. Looks like he was wrong. “I’m here to see Quildisse.”

“I’m afraid  _amil_  isn’t home right now, although she should be here in an hour. Would you like me to take a message or would you prefer to wait?”

“I’ll wait.”

“ _Alatulya_ , my Lord.  _Mani naa essa en lle?”_

 _“ Nánye_ Kanafinwe Makalaure Feanorion. Or Maglor, if you prefer Sindar.”

“Oh!” Her hands came up to cover her mouth while her brown eyes widened in surprise. “My apologies,  _haryon_. I’m afraid little news comes to this household. We had no idea you had returned.”

The younger  _elleth_  quickly guided him over to a seat. “Would you care for something to eat? Something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. The  _nis_  kept shooting him glances, and opened her mouth several times as if to talk, but each time she shut it again and remained silent.

He really didn’t want to have this conversation. He had planned to arrive, talk to his estranged wife (or not-wife, as it was), and let her break the news gently. But perhaps it was better if he did this now.

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t get your name earlier?”

“Oh, uh,  _nánye_  Alcarie. Alcarie Quildisseriel.” Glory of Quildisse. It was worse than he thought.

“And do you sing at all, Alcarie? I recall your mother was quite talented at it.”

“Uh, no. In fact, I’m tone-deaf.”

“Oh, my apologies then.”

“But I’d love to attend one of your concerts!” she burst out. “I’m sure even one as insensitive as I could still be moved by your music!”

“In that case, you should attend Daeron of Doriath’s performances. If you seek to be touched to the heart, he is a far better musician than I am.”

There was a touch of rebellion in those dark eyes. “Propaganda! Had it not been for the stubbornness of Thingol, I’m sure everyone would agree you were better.”

He lowered his voice. “I named Daeron the greater at the Mereth Aderthad.”

She flushed. It was not a good look on her. “W-well, that was more than six thousand years ago. Things might have changed since then.”

“Daeron and I have been playing together for the past year, albeit at Alqualonde. I assure you, the gap has only grown.” That killed the conversation. In an effort to revive it, Maglor tried again. “Have you seen a healer about your being tone-deaf?”

“Er, a few. They haven’t been able to help.”

“My son, Elrond, was perhaps the best healer on Arda. Perhaps I could ask him to examine-”

“We’ve met.” The  _elleth’s_  voice had gone icy with disdain. Maglor suppressed a wince. He had hoped to head off any other confrontations with this meeting, looks like he had left it too long.

“Why haven’t you asked me- why haven’t you claimed- you must know!” Alcarie finally burst out. “I’m your daughter!”

The Feanorian sighed. He had heard the rumors going around, and unfortunately, so had the rest of the House of Finwe. Their reactions … they had not been pleased, to say the least. There was a reason why Quildisse, her new husband and their children remained in this house outside of Tirion.

“When were you born?”

“I was born in 1497, during the Years of the Trees. Or well, Years of Darkness at that point. It was the year after Alqualonde and the Burning of the Ships.”

The  _ellon_  nodded. Then he pointed to the door. “When your mother walks in, it will be the first time we’ve seen each other since before  _Atar’s_  banishment to Formenos.” She gaped at him. He wished there had been an easier way to tell her the truth.

“And even if that were not true, I could not have been your father. I’m sterile.”

“How would you-”

“Your mother and I asked the Yavannildi when we were trying to have a child. The Vala herself told us that I would never have a child of my own body. The same was not true of your mother.” Maglor shrugged. “It’s why we separated. We bonded over our love of music and desire for children. When we found that one of those things was impossible … the love of music wasn’t enough to keep us together.”

“All this time,” Alcarie whispered. She had jumped up to confront him, now she sunk back into the chair. “She told me you were mine. I’ve clung to the idea for so long … that one day you would return and come and claim me for your own. When I met Elrond I was so upset. How dare he call himself Maglorian, when I’ve waited for three Ages for an  _ataresse_  and to be called Magloriel. He told me that it was impossible.”

“Elrond knows that I am unable to father children. There was a time when he and his brother thought the same as you did and I ended up explaining all the reasons that it wasn’t possible.”

Her eyes were tearing up, although he gave her credit for maintaining a brave front. “They did?”

“Why else would I try to save them from Sirion when no one else came?” Maglor paraphrased the question put to him long ago. “I don’t think Elros ever really got over it. I thought Elrond had, but I guess he was only calling himself  _Peredhel_  for political reasons. I was surprised when he started calling himself Maglorian again when we reached these shores.”

“P-probably to spite Elwing and Earendil.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. The Feanorian had tried not to get involved, but he had heard (from Idril, Maedhros, Earwen, and entirely too many other unconcerned people) that Elrond’s first meeting with his parents had gone badly.

“Would you consider allowing me to claim the same? I know my mother’s husband is not my  _atar_  and I have never considered any other.”

“I don’t believe in claiming laurels I haven’t earned.” Her face fell, and he was afraid she’d start crying again. “I would be glad to make another friend though. Perhaps after we get to know each other, you can ask again.”

She gave him a smile. It was weak and watery, but under the circumstances, he thought she was doing quite well. “I … I would like that.”

“In the meantime, you might want to ask your mother who your real  _atar_  is. Surely after all this time, your old enough to know the truth.” He looked up at the door. “In fact, why don’t I give you time to talk right now?”

Quildisse looked like a shorter, rounder version of her daughter. Except for her eyes, which were hard and black as coals. As Maglor moved to pass her, she spat, “I suppose it was too much to ask thee to leave her with some hope?”

“Twas not I who lied to thine daughter, Quildisse. Thou hast done her no favors with this illusion. Thus, I leave it in thine hands to correct this mistake.”

Maglor went back up the hill to meet with Ambarussa. He thought himself fairly calm, but when his auburn-haired younger brother took one look at his face and sprung up to embrace him, he supposed he wasn’t doing as good a job as he thought. “I saw her go in just a few minutes ago. The meeting didn’t go well?”

“I should have been kinder.”

“Ah, I see.” The two of them swung themselves into the saddles. “At least Alcarie knows the truth now. Perhaps she can begin to grow up.”

“Perhaps,” Maglor pointed his horse’s nose towards the wilds. He didn’t feel like going home right now. “But Ambarussa … I have such doubts.”


	5. Corma

“I have something for you,” said Olorin. He was still wearing the guise of an old mortal, something that caused many in Tirion to stop and stare in confusion.

“Something for me? Another performing engagement? Or perhaps another command from the Valar?”

“No, when I said I had something, I meant I had an actual, tangible object for you.” Gandalf rested his staff on the lip of the fountain. “Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

Had it been almost anyone else, Maglor would have been suspicious. Even his brothers weren’t above pulling pranks on him and Elrond, while less obnoxious than his other relatives, was a little too fond of adding hot sauce to his tea to be completely trusted. Not that Gandalf had ever been above poking a bit of fun at the other, but there was one important difference.

Maglor would retaliate and the Maia knew it.

So when the Noldo closed his eyes and held out one cupped hand, he did so with confidence that nothing gross, slimy or disgusting would occur. Instead, the Istar gently grasped it, parted the fingers and slipped a ring onto his index.

Opening his eyes, Maglor flipped his hand over to look at the gold and ruby ring. “Narya,” he stated, eyes solemn. “Now this is a surprise. Why would you give me something I have no claim on?”

The elder of the two snorted. “Who else does? Celebrimbor, of course, but when we made to return them he refused and said we could keep them.”

Bemused, Maglor tried again. “Gil-Galad? You never did tell me how it got from his hand to yours. You weren’t even in Arda when he died.”

“If any of the Rings could be claimed by Gil-Galad, it would be Vilya, not Narya. As to how it got to me,” Gandalf sat next to the Feanorian and pulled out a pipe. “After his death, the ring went to Cirdan-”

“They gave the Ring of Fire to Cirdan? Cirdan the Shipbuilder?” blurted out the Noldo.

“They might have offered it to you had been there.”

“I  _was_  there,” said Maglor dryly. “Elrond and Nerwen would have known better than to offer though.”

“Anyway, when the Istari arrived, Cirdan took me aside and gave it to me. He said it would aid me in my task, and indeed it was vital in buoying the courage of the Free People. So, simple enough.” Gandalf paused and blew out a smoke ring. “How do you know of the Rings?”

“I’m the one who delivered them to Nerwen and Gil-Galad.”

“And why didn’t you claim Narya then? Celebrimbor did say it was made for you when I asked.”

“What need had I for a Ring of Power? I was no longer the Keeper of the Gap, I commanded no armies, ruled no nations. I’ve led companies, negotiated with Men, Dwarves, Elves, and Ents-”

“But not Hobbits?”

“-governed cities and fought the Dark in my own way. But never on such a grand scale; I have tested my limits, not broken myself in smashing them. Nor have I ever felt the need to preserve anything against time. Better to accept the changes to come rather than fight against Eru’s plan. To fade is the way of Arda, but new things come from the dust of the old.”

“Well spoken indeed.” A few more puffs. “But that was on Arda, not Valinor. Here, these Rings are only pretty baubles, spent of their Power. Perhaps you will accept it as a memento?”

“Of what? My family is here now, I need no reminders of them.”

“Of the Ages you spent resisting the Darkness. I feel,” some more fiddling with the pipe. “That some here do not take your contributions to the fight seriously. I would give you at least a token to show that your efforts were appreciated and not in vain.”

“I have been forgiven and allowed to live with my family again. That alone is more than I expected.” Maglor twisted the ring over and over in his hand. “Are you sure you do not want to keep it?”

A heavy pause lengthened until the Feanorian thought the conversation had ended. Just as he thought to get up, Olorin spoke again, in a voice so soft the Noldo had to strain to hear it. “It reminds me of Curunir.”

“Ah.” Well, that was something Maglor could understand. There was a point when he could not look at an eight-rayed star for the pain it caused him. “Then I accept your gift, Olorin. However should you ever ask in the future, I will be happy to return it.”

Maglor looked down at the Ring and relaxed his shields. When he had first met Narya, the Ring had been a blaze of Power, aggressive and eager to be used. He hadn’t told Celebrimbor, but it had reminded him too much of his Father. Brilliant, driven and in the end, too reckless to last long. He also knew his nephew had meant well, but Maglor had been afraid of what he might do with such an amplifier. He liked to think he had learned better, but it would have been like throwing an alcoholic in a room filled with bottles of liquor and telling him not to drink. Far better to avoid the temptation.

That was not the Narya that greeted him today. Much of the Power had gone with the defeat of Sauron, and so had the aggression. Instead, the Ring felt quieter, tempered even. The fire was still there, but it was more like a heath fire than an inferno. The Ring was, dare he say it, tired.

He extended some of his own spirit towards it and was surprised to feel it reach back. Apparently, despite his rejection of it, the Ring still recognized him and greeted him like an old friend. But instead of a guard dog, sword and shield to the wielder, this was an old cat, content to be stroked by the fire. As he felt the awareness of the Ring settle by his  _fea_ , the ruby stone began to glow, a soft, steady light that waxed and waned in time to his breathing.

Gandalf smiled. “I believe the Ring has made  _its_  preference known.”

“You may be right.” Maglor gently rubbed the ruby with his thumb. “Welcome home Narya.”


	6. Meldo

When Maglor received that the last ship was coming from Arda he did nothing. He did not arrange to be on the docks to meet it. He turned down an offer to perform at the welcoming ceremony. He wouldn’t have even been on Tol Eressea but Galadriel had wanted some sympathetic members of her family there, and the number of people who had been around for the entire Third Age was reduced to him and Elrond. As it was, he had selected a good inn, further from the docks to avoid the crowds, arranged for rooms and meals and privacy, and settled down to wait. Galadriel awaited her husband, Elrond, and Celebrian their sons, Erestor for Glorfindel, and Oropher and Legolas for Thranduil. They’d come back either happy and relieved at their reunion, or sad and grieving to know that they would never see their loved ones again until the Breaking of the World, or unless they had died. Most likely, it would be a mixture. Maglor was pretty sure Glorfindel would return and that Thranduil would not. Everyone else was up in the air.

The door opened noisily and Maglor could see that his expectations were correct. Glorfindel and Erestor were there, pretty much alone in their own world. Galadriel was alone. Oropher and Legolas were devastated. Elrond and Celebrian, he was relieved to see, were accompanied by one son, although not the other. A tragedy, but at least one of their children had followed them to Valinor. Behind them, came an unexpected guest, Cirdan.

Maglor took it upon himself to arrange everything. Erestor and Glorfindel were easily shooed off into their own private room. Galadriel was somber and after a few words to find out the situation, she also departed to her own room. Maglor spoke to the innkeeper for a warm platter of food and some  _miruvore_ to be sent to her. As depressed as she felt now, skipping a meal would only make things worse. While he was busy with those three, Cirdan had taken it on himself to deal with Oropher and Legolas. Maglor was profoundly grateful; he doubted the kinsmen of Thingol would be at all inclined to listen to a Feanorian.

That left him free to join Elrond and his family. He brought over a tray of food and  _miruvore_  with him, in hopes of getting them all to take some sustenance. “Oh,  _ada_  thank you,” whispered Elrond, raising red-rimmed eyes to meet his.

Maglor poured drinks for all of them and made sure they had some before opening the conversation. “So Elladan,” this close he could identify one twin from the other. “Has chosen the path of Men?”

Elrohir shook his head. “Nay,  _haru_. Elladan has chosen the path of Elves.”

That was startling. “He did? Then why did he not accompany thee to Valinor?”

“Elladan chose the path of the Elves. But he fell in love with a  _nis_  of Thranduil’s court. He would not leave her, and she would not leave the forests of Arda.”

Oh, in a way that was worse. Elrond and his family could hope to see Elladan in the future, but it would be with the knowledge that he had lost his life and left his family bereft in Arda. Maglor said nothing, instead allowing each member of the diminished family to reach out to him and cry. Using  _osanwe_  he allowed a feeling of calm and acceptance to spread through the bonds. It solved nothing, but helped cushion and blunt the pain for a while.

Eventually, the remaining family members cried themselves into exhaustion. Maglor got them to drink some water, wash their faces and guided them into the room he had designated for Elrond. Maglor had initially rented rooms with the expectation that everyone would want their own. But Elrond needed his family with him right now, so he bundled them into the same room, and dragged the couch over to the bed so that Elrohir could join his parents. Then he sang them all to sleep, a soft, wordless lullaby to soothe their wounded  _fear_.

Coming out of his son’s room, Maglor ran into Cirdan. “Tucking away the Sindar?”

“The same as thou wert for the Noldor.” A shared moment of camaraderie. The two of them went back to the parlor to clean-up and finally grab a bite to eat. They settled next to each other on the couch by the fire.

“In sooth, I did not expect to meet thee here.”

Maglor smiled. “I did not expect to be here either. But Galadriel suggested that it might help to have someone who had been through the same experiences as everyone else, but who was distant enough to keep a level head.” He sighed. “Once again, Nerwen was proven right.”

Cirdan nodded. “Still, I am glad to see thee. I had hoped despite thine words at our parting.”

Sharp grey eyes met open green. “Did you now? I had rather wished for the opposite.”

The older elf’s voice was wistful. “Dost thou detest mine company that much? I have more than a passing fondness for thee.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you know that’s not what I meant.” Maglor lowered his voice and dropped the formality as well. “Thou wert one of the first to accept me after mine crimes. I dare to think we are good friends now.”

“Is that all we are?”

“Thou canst do better.” Maglor dropped his eyes away. He and Cirdan had been teetering on the edge of this for half the Third Age. He knew if they put words to this now, there would be no going back. And he had to give the other a chance to back out before it was too late.

“I care not what others think. It is my choice and I choose thee.” Those sentences were said confidently, but after that, the Nelya’s voice softened with worry. “Is there aught that holds thee back?”

He could have lied there. It would have given them both a safe way out. But Maglor found himself wanting to be honest. “Nay. As it happens my wife was given dispensation to marry again.”

“Then thou art free. Or is there another?”

Another chance to lie. Another choice not to do so. “There is none.”

“Then wouldst thou choose me in return?”

“Thou art going to regret this. But yes, Nowe. I do choose thee.”

A smile came to the older Elf’s face. The white-haired Sinda was good at hiding his emotions, but the clear relief he displayed showed how much anxiety had been beneath the mask. “Truly? Even though I’m older than thine Grandfather?”

“Yes, even though thou art older than my Grandfather. But perhaps thou should rethink thine decision. After all, we still need to tell my brothers.”

The blanch that passed over Cirdan’s face was not entirely theatrical. But he rallied and said, “Thou art worth the fires of Angband, so I will face thine brothers, although not happily. Perhaps we should tell them one at a time?”

Maglor just laughed at that. After a moment his companion joined him. “We’ll have to tell Caranthir first then. He’s the only one who can keep a secret.”

“As thou wish.” With that Cirdan captured the Singer’s face in his hands an shared the first of many kisses.


End file.
